When Pansy saw the condition of her husband she uttered a scream of
terror that brought Colonel Falconer’s valet and her maid rushing to
the scene from the back of the cottage, where they had been flirting
with each other in default of something better to do.
Charles, the valet, immediately ran into the house for his master’s
drops, while Pansy lifted her husband’s head and pillowed it against
her breast. Phebe could do nothing but wring her hands and utter
excited ohs and ahs.
“You had better leave him to me, ma’am,” said Charles, with a composure
that betrayed his familiarity with these painful attacks. He took
her place with polite insistence, and then Pansy remembered that her
husband had seemed a little excited over something in the paper he was
reading.
She took the paper up from the floor, where it had fallen, and, in a
very few moments, had found out the cause of Colonel Falconer’s sudden
seizure.
Forgetful of everything but herself in the wild rush of joy that
overwhelmed her soul, she rushed upstairs to her room, and, throwing
herself into a chair, read and reread the precious paper, while her
love for Norman Wylde, so long repressed and denied, thrilled her whole
being again with inexpressible rapture.
“Oh, my love, my love! You were true to me--you loved me, you mourned
for me, for I was, indeed, your wife! The dark stain of disgrace is
effaced from me, and the whole world may know now that Pansy Laurens
was an honored wife, and that her child had a right to its father’s
name. Oh, my little Pet, my precious child, would that I could fly
this moment and take you by the hand and lead you to your beloved
father, telling him how much I love you both!” she sobbed passionately,
forgetting for the moment the man downstairs, whose heart was so bound
up in her.
It was not natural that she should remember him at that moment, for the
shock of joy had been so great as to blot out everything else for the
time being. Joy in Norman’s constancy and love, and horror at the sin
of Mr. Finley and Juliette Ives, filled her whole mind.
She forgot Colonel Falconer and his illness, forgot that she was
another man’s wife, forgot everything but her love for Norman Wylde,
the young husband from whom she had been sundered by such a cruel fate.
“Oh, my love, my darling, would that you were here now,” she kept
murmuring over and over, forgetful of the lapse of time, until she was
startled from her blissful reverie by a low tap upon the door.
“Come in!” she exclaimed, and the door unclosed, admitting Colonel
Falconer, who was ghastly pale, and staggered unsteadily across the
threshold.
“Oh!” cried Pansy, in a heart-piercing tone, for everything rushed over
her at once at the sight of his haggard, pain-drawn face.
“Poor child! You were so happy that you had forgotten me,” he said
gently.
“Forgive me!” she sighed remorsefully, and then suddenly the pretty
dark head fell back against her chair, and she became unconscious.
Colonel Falconer made no effort to revive her. He stood by her side,
gazing with gloomy eyes at the white, unconscious face, and at length
he muttered:
“Poor little one! I wish that you would die now, just as you are; then
I should never have the pain of resigning you to one who has a better
right to you than I have, and in whose love you will utterly forget him
who has had no thought but of you since first he saw your beautiful
face.”
But he did not have his wish granted, for presently Pansy revived of
herself, and looked up dreamily into his face.
“I--I--fainted, did I not?” she murmured slowly. Then, remembering his
illness, she asked: “Are you better?”
“Yes,” he answered, but his face was ghastly as he said it. Making a
brave effort for calmness, he added: “You stayed away so long, Pansy,
that I grew uneasy, and came to seek you.”
“While I selfishly forgot you in my absorption. Oh, forgive me! forgive
me!” she cried remorsefully.
“There is nothing to forgive. Your news was startling enough to excuse
you for everything,” he replied patiently. Drawing a chair near her,
he continued wistfully: “It must have been a great shock of joy to you,
Pansy, to find that Norman Wylde was your true husband, instead of the
false-hearted wretch we deemed him.”
“Yes,” she murmured faintly.
“And you will wish to be restored to him at once, dear?” he continued,
masking with a brave effort the pain he felt in speaking those words.
She started wildly.
“But--I--belong--to--you!” she faltered.
“No, dear. The ceremony that bound you to me is void in law, since you
had a husband living when I married you. You are free of any claim of
mine. Shall you go at once to him, or will you write for him to come
for you?”
She read his keen anxiety in his ghastly face, and it came to her
suddenly that her happiness would prove a deathblow to this good man,
who was so devoted to her that it seemed impossible for his enfeebled
heart to bear the shock of her loss.
Looking up at him with troubled eyes, she said:
“Leave me here alone till morning, that I may decide what is best for
me to do.”